


Lines Drawn

by livthelion



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: But like reluctantly on Derek's part, Derek feels like a motherfucker, Fluff, Humour, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, Slight Canon Divergence S3, Slow Build, Stiles and Derek are bros, i'm also drunk sh, i'ma do me, lot of name calling, sorry if that's not your thing but not sorry enough to change myself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-18
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-02-17 20:48:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2322674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livthelion/pseuds/livthelion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Don’t worry,” Isaac says earnestly, “I can pay.”</p><p>Scott gives him a dopey smile. “Nah, man. I got it.” He slings an arm around Isaac’s shoulder and leads him down the cookie aisle. “Besides. I’m the Alpha. I’m supposed to, like, provide for you and shit.”</p><p>Derek stands and dusts off his pants, glaring after them. <em>I’m the Alpha</em>, he mimics silently, making a face at Scott’s back.</p><p>“Yeah, the Alpha of <em>morons.”</em></p><p>Scott turns around, looking confused and Derek barely manages to drop out of sight again before Scott sees him.</p><p>So, he’s hiding from a couple of sixteen year olds. Whatever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Don't let it in

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from ‘Omega’ by Sza, who is amazing. Particularly named so for the last line of the song. (And the semi-ironic title, though it has absolutely nothing to do with werewolves. Sigh.)
> 
> _‘It’s the beginning’_
> 
> While this is basically [Blurred Lines](http://archiveofourown.org/works/860356) Derek’s POV, you definitely don’t need to have read it to read this, though it doesn’t hurt. (me. it doesn’t hurt me.) (leaving comments/kudos also doesn’t hurt. Hint, hint)
> 
> It’s a little lighter than I intended it to be (and probably lighter than it _should_ be, given that this is from the point of view of Derek “Man Pain” Hale) but I don’t do sadness well, so whatevs. I mean, there’s a hint of angst here and there, but it’s funnier than I thought it’d be. Well, after the first chapter anyway. There’s always a bit of a slow start with me. ‘Cause I suck. Sorry :D
> 
> Thanks to Dae, light of my life, for encouragement and to Tristan for being the perfect beta :3 (he never actually critiques my writing or tells me I need to fix anything but he does always tell me he likes my shit and frequently reminds me I need to update lol)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from ‘It Will Come Back’ by Hozier (and yes I still think it's funny)  
> 

“Dude. Dude, look at this huge ass can of coffee.”

It comes from somewhere off to his left, too close for comfort. Derek tenses all over, huffing and hunching down to look through the open slots in the shelving stacks for the owner of that dumb-ass voice. He finds him, or rather, them, three rows down.

_“Dude.”_

Isaac takes the coffee from Scott and hugs it. It’s twice as big as his head.

“I love this place,” he sighs, cheek mashed against the tin.

Scott grins and squeezes the nape of his neck. Isaac tilts his head, unconsciously submissive. Derek doesn’t snarl at this sickening display, but it’s a close thing.

“C’mon, man,” Scott says, squeezing Isaac’s neck one last time and pushing their cart down the aisle. “We still have to get the rest of the shit on the list.”

Isaac nods, but doesn’t make any attempt to let go of the coffee.

“Uhm. Isaac?”

“Can we keep it, Scott? Promise I’ll look after it,” Isaac says with a mocking curl of a smile, but his hand is sweeping down its’ side, stroking the tin.

It’s weird how loving the gesture is. It’s a fucking can of coffee. 

Scott plays along, sighing. “I don’t know, buddy, it’s a big responsibility. But,” he says when Isaac’s eyebrows draw up tight and he starts working up to a whine, “I _think_ we can swing it.”

“Fucking sweeet,” Isaac says, dropping the earnest child bit and tossing it in the cart.

Derek watches as they disappear down another aisle, and tries not to be bitter about the fact that that could’ve been him, joking around with his betas, doing mundane shit like getting groceries for the house. It’s how it _should’ve_ been. But Derek’s not Alpha, not anymore.

And, as much as he’d like to blame Scott for everything being all fucked up with Isaac, that Boyd only comes by once a week and that Erica is gone, he can’t, because like most of the shit that’s gone wrong in Derek’s life, it’s not actually McCall’s fault. It’s his. He was the one who’d decided to toss Isaac out like that.

It’s not like Derek doesn’t _know_ that it was a dick move, throwing that glass at Isaac; he gets that he burnt that bridge all by himself, he does. But how the hell else was he supposed to get the kid to leave? He’d chosen a bunch of headstrong little shits to attach his wagon to and now, in the words of a person far wiser than he, he’s living with the bratty, hormonal consequences.

It bothers him, though, this thing with Isaac. It bothers him a lot. Sure, the kid had gone back to help him anyways, nearly getting himself and Boyd killed in the process, but as soon as the threat had been eliminated, he’d started giving Derek the cold shoulder. He could say he’d been surprised that yet another relationship in his life went to shit, but he’d be lying.

He leaves the store with a sour taste in his mouth.

-

The next time he sees Isaac—a few weeks later—he’s at the supermarket. Again.

Derek ducks behind the meat freezer he’d been digging through (he’s a werewolf cliché, what can he say) and, just to be safe, lingers there until Isaac goes away.

Not that he’s hiding from a sixteen year old. That would just be...pathetic. And dumb. No, what had happened was he thought he dropped something, so he’d bent down to pick it up. And then when he couldn’t find it, he’d decided to stay there. To look. Without moving. Or actually looking at the floor at all.

Yeah.

He’s considering giving up “the search” when Isaac passes by again, and this time, he has Scott with him. Surprise, surprise. (For the life of him, Derek will never understand how that measly little shit always ends up reaping the benefits of Derek’s hard work while Derek himself is left with _nothing.)_ Isaac stops a few paces away, eyes honed in on the general area in which Derek is...looking. For that thing he dropped.

Derek mumbles a quiet, _“Fuck.”_ and holds his breath, cursing himself for his not-so-out of the blue craving for red meat.

Full moon approaching. Werewolf. It happens.

“What’s up, man?” Scott asks Isaac, knocking their shoulders together in a manner that’s so chummy and familiar that it makes Derek want to tear something in half. Scott hadn’t even known Isaac’s name until Derek bit him. And they’d gone to school together since kindergarten.

“Hmm?” Isaac responds absently. “Oh, nothing. I was just, y’know... thinking,” he says, sounding not the least bit convincing.

Scott rolls his eyes and walks over to the freezer that Derek is definitely not hiding behind and says, “Dude, this is just getting sad.”

Derek hunches down further, scowling to himself and wondering why shit like this keeps happening to him. He is an adult, okay. He should not have to deal with being constantly looked down upon by a bunch of _fucking teenagers_.

“Seriously.” Scott says, judgment heavy in every syllable.

Derek calmly exhales through his nose as he comes to the conclusion that god hates him. Actually, looking back at his life, it’s more likely that it’s all of the gods that hate him. From every religion.

“Okay,” Scott sighs, sounding like he’s resigned to pulling Derek bodily out from behind the freezer. Which he could probably do without losing a limb now that he’s an Alpha.

In fact, Derek might actually be the one who needs to be worried here because, given his already tainted reputation in this town as a former murder suspect, plus their current whereabouts _(were_ -abouts, ha), it would not be...prudent for Derek to engage in a physical altercation with a child.

That’s what he’s telling himself anyway. The reality of the situation is that Derek’s no longer sure this is a fight he can win.

He’s just about to give up the ghost—of his dignity—and stand, when Scott grabs a couple packages of meat and tosses them over to Isaac.

“I know the full moon’s in a few days, but c’mon, man. Mom’s gonna start noticing how much meat we’re going through.”

Derek sneaks a peek over the edge of the freezer in time to see Isaac sniff the steaks appreciatively and drop them in a cart that’s already filled with enough food to supply a small village. And sustain it. For, like, a year.

“Couple more?” he asks hopefully. Scott gives a put-upon sigh and turns back to grab another four packs of steak, toting them back to their cart. “Don’t worry,” Isaac says earnestly, “I can pay for them.”

Scott gives him a dopey smile. “Nah, man. I got it.” He slings an arm around Isaac’s shoulder and leads him down the cookie aisle. “Besides. I’m the Alpha. I’m supposed to, like, provide for you and shit.”

Isaac laughs and ruffles Scott’s hair and Scott ducks out of reach and growls at him, the effect of which is kind of ruined by the dumbass smile he’s got on his face, but you know, whatever, that’s just Derek’s opinion.

He stands and dusts off his pants, glaring after them. _I’m the Alpha_ , he mimics silently, making a face at Scott’s back.

“Yeah, the Alpha of _morons,”_ he mutters angrily.

McCall turns around, looking confused and Derek barely manages to drop out of sight before Scott sees him.

So he’s hiding from a couple of sixteen year olds. Whatever.

He doesn’t chance coming up again until he hears them reach the registers. The only thing is, he’d been so focused on listening out for Scott and Isaac, he hadn’t realized that someone was looking through the meat on the opposite side of the freezer. So when he pops up, this person, who’s got a pack of meat in each hand, by the way, gives a startled shriek and flings both of them right at his head.

Derek stalks out of the market with cow blood dripping down his face and favorite leather jacket. (Laura is somewhere—in a Hell dimension, probably—laughing her ass off.)

-

Shortly after the Supermarket Episode, directly after, really, Derek decides to give up on ever making amends with Isaac. Fuck it, he doesn’t need Isaac; he still has Boyd. Well, mostly. And one out of three isn’t so bad—he isn’t counting Jackson, obviously; that smarmy assclown is abroad and, therefore, out of his jurisdiction.

He immediately feels guilty for thinking it. What happened to Erica wasn’t a joke, not to him, not to Boyd, and he might’ve been trying to protect Isaac, but in the end, all he’d managed to do was drive him away and directly into the waiting arms of that crooked-jawed little fuckface, Scott.

—

Derek’s on his way home from the store the next time he sees Isaac (he’d avoided it as long as he could for the sake of his pride, but a person could only live off of takeout and diner food for so long, even diner food as good as Earl’s). By some miracle, Isaac’s alone this time, standing on a street corner and staring at the house he used to live in with his dad. It’s the perfect opportunity for Derek to talk to him. It would literally be nothing to pull off to the side of the road and walk over, say hi, ask Isaac how he’s doing, maybe even work up to apologize for being a dick or something; he doesn’t have anything to do for the rest of the day.

But he doesn’t.

He idles at a stop sign for a minute and then drives on, glancing at his rearview mirror every few seconds, watching Isaac get smaller and smaller until he disappears from sight altogether.

A voice in the back of his head—it sounds suspiciously like his sister’s—nags him to grow a spine, go back and apologize, Isaac is pack and pack understands, pack forgives.

He tells the voice to shut up and leave him alone. And anyway, Isaac has a new pack and Derek is perfectly content with being a pack of one, thank you very much. Plus Boyd. Maybe. (He’s not actually too clear on where Boyd stands, pack-wise).

The voice in his head sighs and calls him an idiot.

—

Days pass and the voice doesn’t quiet. If anything, it gets louder, more insistent. It tells him to call Isaac and then when that doesn’t happen, it tells Derek to at least text him, ask him what’s up, how’s he doing, and casually slip in that Derek may or may not be feeling mildly apologetic for past events that may or may not have possibly transpired because Derek is an insensitive asshole.

He debates calling Deaton to ask whether it’s possible that he’s being haunted. Or like, possessed. He doesn’t, but only because he’s afraid that Deaton will tell him what he fears he already knows and doesn’t want to face.

Somewhere, between killing his own uncle and the loss of his Alpha-power, he’d managed to grow himself a conscience.

Fuck his life.

—

He holds out a few more weeks, but eventually Derek gives in to his inner demon—as he’s taken to referring to his newly developed sense of morality—and, reluctantly, decides to try and talk to Isaac.

At first, he’s just planning on stopping by the McCalls’ and trying his luck there, but after thinking about it, he rules a home invasion out. Because now that Scott is, for lack of a more _appropriate_ word, Alpha, entering his “territory” “uninvited” is “frowned upon,” something that even someone as new and uninformed as Scott is sure to recognize.

So, here Derek is, lurking in a high school parking lot—a place he is far too familiar with for someone who has been out of high school for nearly ten years—all in the hopes of making peace with a teenage werewolf.

Seriously, though. Fuck his life.

He waits around until the bell rings and students start streaming out of the exits, and, realizing he really can’t put it off much longer, decides he may as well get it over with.

“Isaac. It’s, uh, it’s Derek.” He coughs awkwardly. “Look, can we talk?”

There’s no immediate answer, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that Isaac hadn’t heard. Derek will wait and if Isaac comes, he comes. If he doesn’t, well. It won’t be a total loss; Derek had been planning on stopping by the store today anyway. And after he goes to the store, he can head home, eat a bloody steak and-

And spend the rest of his life being badgered by his stupid inner demon, fuck.

He growls in irritation. _“Isaac.”_

He hears Scott say, _“Derek’s here,”_ after a moment.

Derek curses under his breath, because he’d been hoping that maybe Scott and Isaac went home separately, which, now that he thinks about it, was entirely too optimistic of him.

And with Scott came... _it_.

Derek snarls a little, aggravated at his own stupidity. He should’ve just staked out Isaac’s old place and waited for him to show up again or something, anything but coming here and making an ass of himself in front of Isaac and his stupid little friends. It would’ve been smarter and less painful. He should leave. Now, before they have a chance to stop him.

He makes it two steps before he just stops and sighs.

Who the fuck is he kidding? He’s not going anywhere.

He kicks a rock clear across the parking lot, not caring if he looks like a child. He is hanging around outside of a high school, being ogled by teenagers, and will shortly be forcibly subjected to Scott and his motor-mouth sidekick. Derek will be as childish as he fucking wants to be.

“Uhm,” someone behind him says, “can I help you?”

Perfect. Just what he needs. Derek scowls at the ground for a split second before putting on his best _swear I’m not a pervert_ smile and turning around. And yes, he has a specific smile for this situation. Like he said, he’s spent a lot of fucking time in this parking lot.

“No, no, I’m just waiting for my—” Derek’s words escape him momentarily and he has to clear his throat to cover up the slip, because oh. “—cousin. Hi.” His smile becomes less forced.

The woman, teacher? smiles back, looking flustered. “Hi. Sorry about the—” she gestures around and flushes a little, embarrassed, “—you know, but you can’t be too careful. Especially in _this_ town,” she adds with a laugh.

Derek’s back immediately goes up and he eyes her warily, wondering what she knows, because that’s a pointed remark if he ever heard one.

Her expression changes to one of alarm. “Oh, no! No, I only meant that there’s been a lot of excitement lately, with all the deaths and whatnot,” she explains.

Derek lifts an eyebrow. Her face is expressive. Derek can see the exact moment she realizes what she’s said.

“Not that I’m saying people dying is exciting! I mean, it _kind_ of is, but— Oh, god.” She gives a disbelieving laugh. “I really just said that,” she says, sounding slightly mortified.

She shakes her head and straightens her shoulders. “Sorry, let’s try that again.” She sticks out her hand and says, “I’m Jen. Jennifer! I mean. You can call me Jen. If you want. I— most people call me Jen, but Jennifer’s good, too. Either way.” She grimaces and stares at the ground, nodding, like _yep, that just happened_.

Derek can’t help but smile. She talks a lot.

It’s...cute.

“Derek,” he says, reaching for her hand and shaking it. “No derivatives. Just Derek.”

She grins, easy and bright. “So I’m guessing nicknames are off the table then, huh?”

Derek smirks. “I could be persuaded.” He could not be persuaded. No way in hell. 

Jennifer laughs, seeing right through him. “No, you couldn’t.”

Derek smiles, “You’re right, there’s no w—”

 _“—Derek talking to Ms. Blake? And why is he smiling? Derek doesn’t smile, does he? Guys? That’s not actually Derek, is it. What is it? A shapeshifter? A_ robot?”

Derek grits his teeth and forces the smile to stay on his face, forces himself to not look over to where he knows the owner of that irritating voice is standing.

He knew this would happen. He _knew_ it.

But nooo, he had to go and grow a conscience and feel bad about the means by which he saved a life!

Okay, so Isaac had ignored him and almost died anyway, that’s not his fault! Derek was being a _good_. _person_.

And this is his reward.

“—erek? Derek.” Jennifer waves a hand in front of his face.

Derek blinks, only _just_ keeping himself from flinching away from her. “Sorry,” he says, pasting on an apologetic grimace. “I just saw my cousin.”

“Oh! Right,” she says, looking a little disappointed. She gives him a hopeful smile, “Well, I guess I’ll see you around?”

Derek gives her a slow smile in response. “Yeah. Definitely.”

-

Derek hates teenagers. They have no sense of loyalty. All they do is lie, and complain, and, apparently, make stupid references to stupid Disney Channel shows that have been off air for give or take ten years.

“So,” Stiles says next to him, nodding. Derek glares even harder at Scott and Isaac’s retreating backs, silently willing them to come back and take this moron with them. “‘Sup.”

Derek drags his eyes away from Scott’s mom’s car to give Stiles a look he hopes conveys just how infuriating he finds Stiles’ presence and that he would very much like nothing more than to strangle him and watch the life slowly leave his body.

Stiles lets out a nervous laugh.

Sadly, Derek is prevented from making good on his unspoken threat because there are people around. People, that would probably notice if Derek murdered the sheriff’s son in broad daylight.

Derek is still glaring at Stiles and Stiles is still laughing nervously when Jennifer passes. “Hey, Stiles,” she says, smiling and glancing at Derek. “I just finished reading your essay.”

Stiles’ face does something odd. Derek supposes it might be a grin, but the kid’s mouth is open far too wide for it to be a smile of the conventional sense. “Was it the best?” Stiles asks, sounding eager to hear her answer.

Jennifer makes a considering noise. “Close second. Ms. Martin’s was—”

When Stiles groans, he groans with his entire body. It’s stupid.

“Say no more,” he sighs. “Really. I got it. I’ve no hope of being first in _anything_ as long as Lydia is breathing.” Stiles’ expression turns thoughtful for a second. Derek is pretty sure he’s thinking about killing off the competition.

“Yours was by far the most entertaining,” Jennifer assures him. “It was very...interesting,” she adds with a suppressed smile.

Derek snorts. Yeah, he bets it was _real_ fucking interesting.

Stiles shoots him a dirty look, and then turns his attention back to Jennifer, shrugging. “That’s what I was going for.”

“You did a good job,” Jennifer tells him sincerely.

Derek fights to keep a straight face. Stiles? Do a good job?

Please.

But the kid seems to believe her, if the stupid smile that spreads across his face is any indication.

Stiles looks away bashfully, mumbling something about teachers and chairs, Derek doesn’t know. He blocks Stiles out and twitches his eyebrows at Jennifer. She flushes and hides a smile and gives him a stern look that says, _not in front of the student,_ and yeah, Derek could be into that, playing teacher.

Stilinski recovers quickly and immediately starts chattering at Jennifer about an upcoming test or something. It’s annoying, the way Stiles seems to have to talk with his hands flying around, but Derek uses the distraction he provides to study Jennifer, or Ms. Blake as Stiles keeps referring to her.

He has to appreciate the way she handles the moron’s babbling. She keeps up with Stiles easily, even though he changes topics constantly and draws conclusions that have literally _nothing_ to do with what they’re talking about. And she smiles while she does it, like it’s not completely exasperating that someone feels the need to waste so much energy on, what should be, a simple conversation.

She seems...nice. Funny, smart. Genuine.

And okay, yeah, she’s not too hard on the eyes. Hell, that’s an understatement.

And she’s—she’s leaving, saying bye to Stiles and turning to Derek with a small, shy smile. “See you around?”

Derek dips his head in acknowledgement, lips twitching up at the corners. “See you.”

Jennifer glances over her shoulder a few times as she follows another teacher across the lot, flushing every time her eyes meet Derek’s.

“So,” Stiles says after a minute.

Derek tears his eyes away and lifts his eyebrows.

Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Just because your eyebrows can convey questions as well as - hell, maybe even better - than you actually using your words and saying _‘What?’_ can, doesn’t mean you don’t have to talk, too, asshole.”

Derek blinks. His eyebrows do what now.

Stiles has already moved on, though, giving no sign that he’d just had a fifteen second little tirade about Derek and his, apparently, expressive eyebrows.

“What’s that all about?” he asks with a nod towards Jennifer.

“That?” Derek repeats dumbly, dropping his gaze. “That’s nothing.” 

“Right,” Stiles says, voice odd. Derek narrows his eyes, simultaneously wanting and not wanting to know what’s going on in that funny little brain.

“Well, wrap it up, big guy,” Stiles says brightly. “We don’t need any more of your were-spawn running around these parts.”

Were-spawn. Really.

His face must show how unimpressed he is because Stiles starts spitballing alternatives. “Were-children? Were-babies? Whelps? Cubs? Puppies?”

Derek glares and Stiles grins, looking for some reason pleased with his reaction. “Don’t worry, I’ll think of something.”

Like Derek is worried. Derek could give a flying _fuck_.

“Catch ya later, Hale,” Stiles chirps, clapping him on the chest and leaving before Derek can tear his arms off.

Shame.

If that had been the case, Derek probably would’ve enjoyed the moron’s presence, for once.

—

Boyd comes to see him.

“So I heard you’ve been stalking Lahey,” he says the second Derek answers the door.

See, this is what he means. Teenagers have no sense of loyalty.

“It wasn’t stalking,” he grinds out. “I just stopped by the school and waited around to try and talk to him and—”

“So, stalking.”

“Not. _Stalking,”_ Derek snaps. “I was—” he grimaces, “— _concerned_ for his wellbeing.”

“And what happened after you expressed your concern,” Boyd asks, smirking like he already knows the answer.

Derek glares at the ground. “I don’t know. He was...busy,” he hedges, “he had to leave.”

Boyd gives him a dry look. “So, basically, you went to apologize and he shot you down.”

“Who asked you,” Derek says sullenly.

Boyd pats him on the shoulder, reeking of condescension. “I’m sure he’ll get over it someday.”

Boyd is an asshole.

-

_“So I heard you’ve been stalking Lahey.”_

And Derek reiterates: Boyd is an _asshole._

 _“I’m sorry,”_ Cora says, not sounding sorry at all, _“you showed up at his school to ‘express your concern for his wellbeing.’”_

Derek glares at his phone. “You and Boyd need to stop talking. I don’t like it.”

Cora laughs. _“Yeah, well, fortunately for me, I’m an adult and, therefore, do not have to take your opinions about who I do or do not talk to into account.”_

“Brat.”

_“Wow, Derek, don’t strain yourself. Comebacks like that only come around so often. Now you’ve wasted it. Who knows how long it’ll be before you come up with another one?”_

Derek holds the phone away from his face and breathes deeply and tries to remember that at one point, Cora had been his favorite. Back when she was six and thought he was the greatest thing since sliced bread. Now, she’s sarcastic and mean. Like a mini-Laura. Except Laura had been worse. Much worse. There were no boundaries with Laura. She used to pick the lock to his apartment and eat all his food and scare off the girls he brought home. Like that one time she’d stuffed a couch cushion under her shirt and pretended to be his pregnant fiancé. She’d cried and made it convincing enough that the girl he was with that night had left, but not before smacking him in the face and calling him a pig. After she’d gone, Laura had laughed so hard she’d started crying all over, saying “Should’ve given me a key when I asked, bro.” Derek had asked if that would’ve stopped her, and she’d just said, “No,” and laughed some more.

So, no, Derek supposes that Cora isn’t anywhere near as bad as Laura.

He uses that thought to calm himself. “So how was Lima?”

 _“Subtle,”_ Cora says drily. _“It was great. Probably would’ve been better if you’d decided to stick around, but—”_

“What,” Derek asks, smirking, “you miss me already?”

At least someone in this world loves him.

_“Nah, the cell service around here is shitty. It would be much more gratifying to make fun of you in person.”_

Derek hangs up on her.

—

He sighs.

Someone is standing outside his door.

Derek could lie and say he doesn’t know who it is, but he does. He could probably recognize that annoying heartbeat anywhere. He entertains the thought of ducking out the window in his room, but decides against it in the end. What kind of werewolf would he be if he allowed some scrawny human to run him out of his own home?

Stiles is nodding, having a silent conversation with himself like the weirdo he is, heart tripping and speeding up when he catches sight of Derek, anxiety leaking from his pores. Derek wonders what it is he and Scott have got themselves into this time.

“Heeey, buddy, I was just in the neighborhood—” Lie. Total lie. Derek doesn’t even need his werewolf hearing to see through that one. Stiles breaks off, taking in Derek’s appearance and says, “Holy shit, you’re sweaty. What were you _doing?”_ all in one breath and it’s kind of ridiculous enough that Derek feels himself starting to smile before he remembers that that’s not something he does with Stiles.

Or anyone really. Unless smiling is necessary. His real smiles are few and far between, have been for years now.

He schools his expression back to one of impassiveness.

“So, uh, I brought entertainment,” Stiles says after an awkward pause. He holds his movies up like they’re something to be proud of, waves them under Derek’s nose.

Derek spares a glance at the movies, he’s pretty sure he’s seen them all, and focuses on the bag of takeout in Stiles’ hand. He hasn’t eaten yet. It smells good.

Stiles notices his interest and holds the bag up, wiggles his eyebrows like a moron. “Oh, and sustenance.”

Derek inhales through his nose, “Is that from Mr. Lu’s?” Stiles gives him a bright smile and shoulders his way inside Derek’s house, leaving Derek himself standing in the doorway, blinking in confusion.

He’s not entirely sure what the hell is happening right now.

A short ways away, Stiles is making himself comfortable, plopping down on Derek’s floor and pulling containers of food out and setting them in a little circle around himself because yeah, Stiles had interrupted his afternoon workout and all his furniture is shoved up against the walls.

Derek lets the door fall shut and takes an apprehensive step towards his living room, then stops. He doesn’t know what the hell is Stiles thinking. They don’t do this, they don’t _hang out_. They don’t even _like_ each other. Derek would go as far to say that on a good day, he can barely tolerate Stiles’ presence and on a normal day—for them anyway—Stiles is voting that Scott  & Co. leave Derek to die.

Which never actually happens, but whatever. It’s the principle of the matter.

Stiles is too busy breaking out the chopsticks to notice the internal battle Derek is waging with himself in the corner (he’s moved past confusion and is now debating whether or not he should keep the food when he grabs Stiles by the scruff of his neck and throws him out of his fucking house).

He opens his mouth to say something, something that will probably start with the words, “Now listen here, you little shit,” but gets distracted watching Stiles eat. And he means that in the loosest sense of the word because Stiles isn’t really _eating_ so much as he is stuffing noodles down his gullet like they’re alive and trying to get away from him.

Derek tries to tear his eyes away, but it’s kind of like watching someone get hit by a car; it’s horrifying, but you can’t just _stop_ watching.

He must make some kind of sound, most probably one of disgust, because Stiles stops chewing and looks up at him with his weirdly large eyes.

“You gonna put a movie on?” He holds up a carton of something that smells amazing and shakes it at Derek. “C’mon, man. A good portion of my friends are werewolves. I know your kind is hungry, like, eight days a week.”

And that’s awful and racist—speciest?—but Derek only stands there for another second or two before giving in with a resigned scowl. Fine. He’ll let this happen. But only because he wants to eat and his inner demon will probably bitch him out if he actually does kick Stiles out and steal his food. Derek would rather not have to deal with all that.

So one movie. One movie and then the moron can go home.

-

They end up watching three. He doesn’t know how it happens.

Surprisingly, Stiles’ taste in movies isn’t...horrible. He’d already seen Willow and Thor, but he’d never gotten around to watching Stargate. It was alright.

Okay, it was kind of fucking awesome, but Derek will never admit that to the moron. Death first.

He’s tossing their trash, wondering what the fuck possessed him to making sort-of plans to hang out with Stiles in the vague future when he hears Stiles cackle once loudly in the other room and promptly start choking.

Derek stomps out of the kitchen with a scowl. “What’s—” _going on._ Stiles waves a small strip of paper at him, still braying like a donkey, and Derek growls when he realizes that it’s his own fortune Stiles is laughing at.

The one that reads, _Unwind and enjoy a frisky romance._

“That was _private,”_ Derek snarls, face heating. Fuck, how the hell had the brat even managed to get his hands on it? It was in his fucking pocket!

“Finders keepers,” Stiles sing-songs. Derek glares down at him and snatches at the fortune, but Stiles uses his abnormally long monkey arms to hold it out of reach. “No, you can’t have it! I’m keeping this for memories!”

Derek grabs his wrist and pries the fortune out of his hand, bearing his teeth and growling, _“Mine,”_ so that Stiles will get the message. The fortune belongs to Derek and Derek doesn’t like people he doesn’t like touching his things.

Stiles’ face goes weird, mouth falling open and eyes giving way to panic. Derek falters; why the hell is Stiles looking at him like that? What, does he thinks Derek’s going to try and bite him or something? Given, he _has_ gotten pretty close to the idiot’s face, but still. That doesn’t mean he’s gonna kill him. Blood is difficult to get out of hardwood floors.

Stiles whimpers and Derek remembers Isaac saying something about Stilinski getting panic attacks and tries to slowly back away from Stiles without him noticing. He’ll hide in— not hide, _go_ to his room so that Stiles can panic out here by his lonesome. His inner demon calls him an asshole, but Derek is, for once, glad to ignore it. He and Stiles aren’t friends, aren’t anything to each other, really. How is Derek supposed to get him through a panic attack when he was, apparently, the cause of said panic?

The point is moot because Stiles ends up running out of Derek’s house like his ass is on fire about five seconds later.

Derek is irritated that it bothers him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a part in here, the “and now he’s living with the bratty, hormonal consequences” line, that is actually from another fic I read a while back. I don’t remember what it was called, just that I loved it and it stuck with me sooo, I borrowed it. I always tell myself I’m gonna look for it, but I never do. See, even as I write this right now, I could do it, but I won’t lol so if you know what I’m talking about, let me know and I’ll put a link up to the fic so I don’t feel so bad about borrowing a bit of genius.
> 
> Also, I really do like ‘verses (and now canon) where Derek and Scott getting along, but idk, man, shit happens


	2. Go home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I gave up trying to fix the first chapter into something I could stand so now I'm just gonna be knocking these ones out because I will probably never be satisfied with anything in this life. Prepare yourselves
> 
> Oh, and if some parts seemed rushed; they are. Sorry. (Specifically this one part that I'm not going to point out and make even more obvious). I checked over _nothing_
> 
> Chapter title from ‘Go Home’ by Lucius  
> ‘I don't need you anyway  
> I don't need you, go home’

Derek opens the door and bites back a growl.

He’d been hoping the moron was here with some bad news, like Scott had finally choked on his own stupidity and died (ha, bad news) or that that half-demon with OCD was back in town, but nope, Stilinski has a couple pizzas in his hands and the boxset first season of Supernatural, which means that this is a social call.

Derek cannot say it enough. Fuck his life.

Stiles seems even more nervous than he had the day before, but he pushes through it enough to give Derek a wide smile. “You like pizza right?”

Derek does like pizza and he also happens to be hungry, so he wordlessly steps aside and lets Stiles in.

He looks mildly surprised that Derek is allowing him entrance. Derek is mildly surprised himself.

Stiles glances around the living room and seems to be kind of amazed that, unlike yesterday when he’d interrupted Derek’s afternoon workout, the furniture is all in its proper place. Not that he has much; it’s really just the couch, the entertainment center and the murder table—a solid wood coffee table he’d rescued from a sketchy back alley, smelling strongly of disinfectant and blood but still in good condition; Isaac had dubbed it the ‘murder table’ when he’d still lived with Derek; the name had stuck for a while—but it’s good enough. Livable, at least.

He could order some new stuff if he wanted; it’s not like he doesn’t have the funds, but furniture shopping reminds him too much of Laura. She’d been the one to buy everything for his apartment back East, been so excited when he’d finally given in and told her, “Okay, you can decorate my apartment, Lo, but I swear to God, I see a single fucking unicorn anywhere near my place and I’m going to stab you.”

Of course she hadn’t listened.

They’d arrange for him to stay at her place for the weekend while she took care of it and when he got back, there were unicorns everywhere. _Everywhere._ Laura had nearly pissed herself laughing, wheezing, “But I thought you liked unicorns, Der,” between giggles, and Derek had yelled back, “Jesus fucking Christ, Laura, I was _five_ , let it go!” because Laura had been an awful human being, even as a child, and Derek had been naïve enough to trust his big sister not to judge him when she’d asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up and he’d whispered, “a unicorn” like a fucking moron. _(What?_ He was a kid, how was he supposed to know things didn’t work like that!) It had been the start of many-a unicorn-themed horrors.

She’d let him get rid of the unicorn shit without much of a fight, though, thank God, and actually turned his place into something that suited him, that he felt comfortable in. She’d complained that he was boring, but he didn’t care. He liked his grey sheets and his grey couch and his monochromatic kitchen appliances.

After he’d moved back to California and after he’d finally gotten himself a place to live that wasn’t a rusty old, rat-infested boxcar or the house in which his life had ended, he’d thought about buying himself some new things, but when he’d gone into town to take a look at the lone furniture store in the entire Beacon County, he kept hearing Laura saying, “Fucking A, Der, get something with some _color_ , would you?” and he just couldn’t. Can’t. Not right now. Maybe in another year or two.

Stiles starts getting twitchy. He doesn’t seem to know how to handle himself when insults aren’t immediately being thrown around, and if he’s being honest, Derek doesn’t really know how to handle it either.

Stiles licks his lips, a nervous tick probably. “So, uh…”

Derek lifts his eyebrows and waits for him to elaborate. Stiles grimaces and balances the dvds on top of the pizza boxes for a second and scratches at his nose. Derek rolls his eyes and takes the pizza out of Stiles’ hands, puts it on the coffee table and heads for the kitchen to grab the moron a drink before he can tell himself it’s a bad idea.

Whatever. His parents raised him right. Manners and all that shit.

Okay, so he the real reason he’s doing it is that he might’ve felt a little bad for not offering the kid a drink the day before. But Stiles hadn’t said anything and Derek isn’t a fucking mind reader.

He stalks back to the living room, mood sour, but altogether resigned to the fact that he is actually doing this. Willingly, _voluntarily_ , giving Stiles a soda. What is it they say about feeding strays?

Oh, yeah. That once you do, they _never fucking leave._

And technically, it’s not food, but the point remains the same. He’s basically inviting tragedy into his life now.

He almost turns right back around and throws the drink in the trash, but changes his mind when he sees Stiles still standing awkwardly in the middle of living room, facing the windows, proverbial glowing red target on his back.

Derek, because he is a wonderful, thoughtful person, decides to give Stiles a lesson in stealth of sorts; a lesson that could very well keep him alive in the future.

Or he’s just being a dick, whatever. He can live with that.

Derek steps in front of him, expression innocent. “Drink?”

 _“Holy_ fucking _—”_ Stiles’ face does something impossible and his hand moves to his chest like he can stop himself from having a heart attack by sheer force of will.

His reaction is probably more gratifying than it should be.

“A little _warning,_ dude,” Stiles squeaks, still clutching at his chest.

Derek exhales loudly, bored. Christ, it’s been what, a year since Scott was bitten? Shouldn’t this dipshit be used to it by now, people sneaking up on him, or just being scared in general?

Stiles’ expression goes pensive for a moment, and then he snaps his fingers. “I’ve got it! When’s your birthday again?”

Derek stares back at him like what the fuck are you getting at.

“I’m gonna buy you a bell,” Stiles explains.

Derek’s eyes narrow.

“Don’t worry, it’ll be really nice,” Stiles says quickly. “I’ll even get your name engraved on it so you don’t have to worry about the other puppies trying to take it from you, ‘kay?”

Derek attempts to “center” himself by breathing in deeply through his nose like his mom always taught him.

It does not work.

And Stiles, for some reason, feels it best to continue, unaware how very close Derek is to intentionally allowing his control to slip and murdering him.

“The best part is I won’t have to worry about dying from a heart attack at the age of sixteen _and_ it’ll brighten up your ensemble. Two birds; one stone.”

Stiles looks pleased with his argument. Derek wants to throw Stiles off his building.

He knows his face has to be terrifying right now; he can feel it in his bones. But Stiles starts laughing, laughing so hard he doubles over and has to put his hands on his knees.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, minutes later, “I’m stopping, I swear.” He continues laughing.

Derek stalks forward. “Give me that,” he snaps, snatching the dvd set out of Stiles’ hands and shoving the soda at him. He shakes it impatiently until Stiles takes the hint and grabs it, and then crosses the living room to the tv, grumbling.

Stiles gets weird about the soda. When Derek turns to snap at him to sit the fuck down, he’s staring down at it like it holds the secrets of the universe or something.

“Is there something wrong with it,” Derek asks pointedly.

Stiles swivels around, eyes wide and bright. “You got me a soda?”

Derek really hopes Stiles isn’t about to start crying right now, because that is where he draws the line. Trolls, vampires, stupid baby Alphas, whatever, Derek can deal with that. It’s irritating and he doesn’t like it, but he can deal.

But tears? Over a bottle of _soda?_ Nope. Not in his house.

Before he has a chance to calmly demand that Stiles _get the fuck out of my house right the fuck now,_ Stiles says, “You’re my hero,” all creepy and reverent, and the words die in his throat.

“It’s just a soda,” Derek says uncomfortably. Because it _is_. It’s a fucking bottle of root beer. If Derek had known that giving him a soda would grant this kind of reception, he wouldn’t have done it in the first place.

“It’s the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever gotten me,” Stiles says, almost sounding sincere. He takes a long pull from the regrettably given drink, eyes slipping shut, and whispers, _“It’s been too long, my friend.”_

It’s such a fucking dramatic response to taking a drink of _root beer_ that it nearly startles a laugh out of Derek. He manages to swallow it back, though, and covers it up with an impatient huff.

“Does it taste alright,” he asks snidely.

Stiles’ eyes fly open, and he looks from him to the bottle in horror. “Oh, god. You didn’t, like, poison it or something, did you?”

Derek scowls. “Of course not.” But he’d have liked to. Stupid conscience.

Stiles looks confused. “Then why—?”

He wants to say, _I don’t fucking know, stop asking me stupid questions,_ but what leaves his mouth instead is, “I didn’t ask if you wanted something to drink yesterday. You were here for a while.”

Derek makes a mental note to pick up some books on possession—and exorcisms.

Stiles blinks. “I was kind of just surprised that you even let me in your house.”

Derek feels his eye starting to twitch. “Technically, you let yourself in.”

“No, no, no. It would only be considered letting myself in if I had opened your door,” Stiles argues. He sets his soda on the murder table and falls back on the couch. “Also, you could totally overpower me and, like, throw me around—” Stiles squeaks, for some odd reason going red, and backtracks, “I mean, throw me _out.”_

Derek imagines himself throwing Stiles out. Of a window. And for a moment, life is wonderful.

Then Stiles starts talking again.

“If you really wanted to, anyway,” he says, smirking. “I think you secretly enjoy my company.”

It’s true that yesterday hadn’t been half as bad as Derek previously would’ve thought being subjected to hours alone with Stiles would be. But there’s a difference between suffering through Stiles’ presence for the sake of food and enjoying it.

Which Derek had not.

 _Then why did you let him in,_ the voice in the back of his head asks. _Again. Because this is twice now._

Shut up inner demon!

“You don’t have to be ashamed, dude,” Stiles teases, drawing Derek out of his head. “You can admit you like me.”

 _Yeah, Derek,_ his brain taunts, _admit you like him._

Derek growls and tells both his stupid inner demon and stupid Stiles to shut up and get out.

Stiles just laughs and pulls a piece of pizza from the box and chews on it obnoxiously until Derek starts up the first episode.

The Woman In White.

Fucking peachy.

-

Two episodes later, Derek finds himself once again wondering how he let this happen, this thing they’re doing. It’s almost like hanging out.

He supposes it isn’t…100% awful, but it’s still fucking weird. Mostly because it’s not weird. They don’t talk much, Stiles is unexpectedly quiet, only breaking the silence to make a passing comment here or there, (like “Dude, I haven’t seen these episodes in so long. They look like freaking babies”).

What surprises Derek most, though, is that he doesn’t really mind any of it. The comments, Stiles passing him a new slice of pizza every time he finishes one like Derek is incapable of reaching into the pizza box and getting it for himself, Stiles telling him to pause the show so he can run to the kitchen to grab some napkins (“Dude. Where’s your kitchen?” – “Never mind, found it!” followed by an insultingly surprised sounding, _“Dude,_ you have a nice kitchen”), Stiles coming back with an entire roll of paper towels— _why_ —and another soda for Derek because he noticed he was running low, or even that Stiles keeps calling him dude, like Derek hasn’t already told him to knock that shit off a dozen times, like they’re _friends_ or something.

What the hell is wrong with this picture? Besides everything.

-

Five episodes after that, Stiles gets up and grabs his jacket off the floor and salutes Derek.

His brow furrows. “You’re not gonna take your dvds with you?”

“Nah, I’ll be back,” Stiles says as he shrugs his jacket on. “No point in hauling them back and forth, y’know?”

Yeah, because those dvds, they weigh _so_ much, right.

Derek eyes Stiles warily, wondering what his angle is. Stiles shrugs and heads for the door, calling, “You better not watch any without me,” over his shoulder as he goes.

And Derek can’t help it, he laughs. His life just got even more ridiculous. And he’s a werewolf who occasionally engages in all-out battles to the death with a bunch of other creatures that aren’t supposed to exist, so that’s saying something.

—

It’s Friday.

It’s Friday and Stiles is on his doorstep with food. Again.

“Heya, pal,” he says with a bright smile.

Derek’s eyes narrow.

“You’re back,” he states plainly, choosing to leave out the most important part of that thought. The _why._

“Yes, thank you, Captain,” Stiles says, clapping Derek on the shoulder and walking past him.

Derek stands in the doorway, feeling lost. “Captain?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, setting the drink tray down on the murder table. “As in Obvious.” Stiles chuckles at his joke and then turns. “Hey, where’d you put the— Oh, _fu-!”_ He skitters back, trying to get away from Derek, who, upon Stiles’ comments, had decided to give him another lesson in stealth.

“Yeah, of course you would choose to stand behind me instead of just glaring from across the room like a normal person, why not,” Stiles mutters, throwing Derek a dark look.

“I’m pretty sure glaring at you from anywhere is normal,” Derek says drily.

Stiles looks frightened. “I’m about 75% sure that I didn’t say any of that out loud.” He half turns away from Derek, covering his mouth in horror, and whispers, “He must’ve developed—” dramatic pause, “— _mind powers.”_

Derek fights to not roll his eyes. Eye rolling is immature and he will not stoop to Stiles’ level.

He rolls his eyes.

“I didn’t develop mind powers, moron,” he says. “And you said _all_ of that out loud. Just an FYI.” He tugs the nondescript carryout bag out of a dazed Stiles’ hand and sprawls out on his couch, making sure to put his feet up so there’s nowhere for Stiles to sit.

Stiles actually tries to pick up his legs and physically remove them from his seat, but Derek locks them in place, easily ruining this sad attempt.

“But where am _I_ supposed to sit?” Stiles whines.

Derek points to the floor.

Stiles’ expression sours. “Oh, that is—” He huffs and plops down on the floor, crossing his arms like a petulant child.

Derek grins behind him and flips the tv on.

He digs through the food bag, pulls two of the burgers and a carton of fries out and happily munches them down, taking pride in his ability to make Stiles angry (or, rather, taking pride in the fact that he still _can_ make Stiles angry; he was starting to get worried for a minute there, all this _getting along_ , and _being_ _cordial._ It’s unnatural is what it is.)

But then the silence starts getting to him.

And he ignores it.

…Until he can’t anymore.

With a sigh, he grabs his second burger and holds it in front of Stiles’ face, a way of saying, _here’s food; stop being a little bitch._

Stiles pointedly stares at the tv screen, ignoring Derek’s magnanimous gesture. Why the hell does he have to make everything. so. difficult.

“Just take the burger, Stiles.”

He shakes his head, stubborn to the end.

“Take. The damn. Burger. Stiles.”

“No.”

Derek growls angrily. “Why are you even _here.”_

Stiles grows still.

“You want me to leave?” he asks, sounding almost hurt, and Derek growls again because what the fuck is that tone for? Derek hadn’t said he wanted him to leave, but even if he had, why the fuck does Stiles suddenly care? It wouldn’t be the worst thing Derek’s said to him by far.

Whatever, Derek doesn’t even care. He doesn’t.

So why does he say, “I didn’t say that. I’m— just trying to figure out why you keep coming back.”

Shit. That sounded almost honest.

Stiles glances up at him like he’s checking to see if he means it, and seems to accept that he does. He grabs the burger out of Derek’s hand.

“I’m here to watch Supernatural and bask in your sunny disposition.” He gives Derek a strange smile and turns back around, takes a bite of his burger and groans, _“Heaven. Heaven in my mouth.”_

Derek ignores that last bit and aims a skeptical look at the back of his head. He doesn’t think Stiles is lying, not exactly, but it doesn’t add up. Stiles has friends, friends that are his age and probably treat him considerably better than Derek does, so…why. Why is he here?

Derek should let it go, but he finds himself pushing. “No, really. Why are you here. You have friends, I _know_ you have friends. I save their asses on a regular basis.”

Stiles shrugs, still half-facing forward. “Yeah, and I see them all the time. I just hung out with Scott and Isaac last night. Kicked both of their asses at Tekken.”

Derek says, “Okay…” as in, _that didn’t really answer my question, like at all._

“I like hanging out here with you,” Stiles mumbles, not looking at him, and Derek blinks hard, because he hadn’t been expecting that. “It’s not as…tiring.”

He doesn’t know what the hell that means, but Stiles doesn’t elaborate and Derek lets it alone.

Without really understanding why he does it, he sits up to make room for Stiles and nudges him in the back with his foot.

“Hmm?” Stiles grunts around a mouthful of burger.

Derek rolls his eyes and nudges him again. Stiles turns his head to the side curiously, and Derek nods to the open seat beside him.

Stiles grins and scrambles to his feet, flopping down next to Derek. “Thanks, man. My ass was starting to hurt.” Stiles takes another bite of burger and then chokes a little. “I mean, because of the hard wood.” He flushes. “I mean, the floor. Hurt my ass. Yeah.”

Derek snorts, not knowing what to make of that, and goes back to devouring his food.

-

Derek is lying in bed, not sleeping, when his phone chimes with a text from a number he vaguely recognizes. He smirks as he reads the message.

 **«** **_I KNOW WHAT YOU DID_ ** **»**

He sends a question mark in response, hoping—knowing—it’ll irritate Stiles.

 **D** **erek -** **«** **_?_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Just because there is a question in the word ‘question-mark’ doesn’t mean it counts as an actual question Derek_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_And you know damn well what you did!_ ** **»**

Derek grins.

And then he realizes what he’s doing, and quickly puts a stop to that nonsense.

 **Derek -** **«** **_I don’t know what you’re talking about._ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_YOU DRANK MY MILKSHAKE_ ** **»**

He barks a laugh.

 **Derek -** **«** **_You texted me at 3 o’clock in the morning to bitch about your milkshake_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Which I drank seven hours ago by the way_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_So you admit to it!_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_It was delicious_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Don’t talk about it like that, the wound is still too fresh_ ** **»**

Derek rolls his eyes and taps out a message that should end the conversation. It’s lasted long enough as it is.

 **Derek -** **«** **_Go to sleep idiot_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_YOU go to sleep_ ** **»**

He growls in annoyance.

 **Derek -** **«** **_I intend to_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_As soon as you shut up and leave me alone_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_You say the sweetest things sometimes_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Still waiting for you to shut up_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Yeah, yeah. I didn’t want to talk to you anymore anyways_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Oh no how will I go on_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Funny._ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Night, asshole_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Leave me alone_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_I’ll text you in the morning_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Please don’t._ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Sweet dreams, buddy_ ** **:-D** **»**

In a final, desperate bid, Derek sends him another text to illustrate his sincerity.

 **Derek -** **«** **_Really Stiles you don’t have to_ ** **»**

Stiles doesn’t reply. Derek sighs to himself and saves Stiles’ number under ‘Dipshit – Do Not Engage’ and falls asleep feeling ill at ease.

—

Stiles texts him in the morning.

—

And continues texting him throughout the week.

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Seriously, though. When are we ever going to use calculus in real life_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_It doesn’t hurt to know_ ** **»**

He immediately regrets ignoring little ‘Do Not Engage’ warning he’d programmed into his phone with Stiles’ number.

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Oh god. You’re a closet math geek aren’t you_ ** **»**

Derek considers changing his number.

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Derek Hale, werewolf extraordinaire and secret math wiz_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_I’m changing my number_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_No you’re not. How would the rest of the puppies get a hold of you_ ** **»**

Derek scowls down at the message.

 **Stiles -** **«** **_You’re frowning with your eyebrows right now, aren’t you lol_ ** **»**

Derek’s eyebrows involuntarily smooth out and he lets out an annoyed growl.

 **Derek -** **«** **_Shut up, Stiles_ ** **»**

Surprisingly enough, he does, and Derek enjoys the rest of his uneventful afternoon in relative peace. Until Stiles starts texting him again.

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Marvel or DC_ ** **»**

Derek stares at the ceiling for a minute, questioning his wretched existence, before sending a simple, one-word reply.

 **Derek -** **«** **_No._ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Favorite Disney princess?_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_No._ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_All-time favorite movie go_ ** **»**

Derek stops answering.

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Fine, favorite tv show then_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Dude, I’m bored out of my mind so if you don’t play along I’m just gonna make up some answers for you and share them with everyone you know_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Which isn’t a problem for me, but I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t like most of “your” answers_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Just saying_ ** **»**

This little shit.

 **Stiles -** **«** **_I’m planning on telling everyone your favorite tv show is Xena: Warrior Princess btw_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Nah, Xena’s awesome_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Maybe Totally Spies?_ ** **»**

Derek glares at the ceiling. Why.

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Should I send out a mass text or wait ‘til tomorrow at lunch time?_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_lol is it just me or is it sad that everyone you talk to is still in high school_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Shut up, Stiles._ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_He lives!_ ** **»**

He encloses a pair of hands that are obviously clapping in condescension, and another that are raised as if praising a higher power.

Derek can feel a headache coming on.

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Have we reached our decision yet?_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_And what decision would that be, moron_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Hurtful, Derek._ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Is your favorite tv show gonna be Totally Spies or Xena?_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Neither._ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_We’re sorry: That is not an option_ ** **»**

He sighs loudly, knowing there’s only one way to get this to stop. And that’s to play along.

 **Derek -** **«** **_Marvel_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_That’s all I’m getting? I asked you like six other questions!_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_It was four, dumbass_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Well, excuse me, Mr. Secret Werewolf Math Wiz_ ** **»**

Derek lets out an ugly snort.

 **Derek -** **«** **_You’re a fucking idiot_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Takes one to know one!_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Real mature._ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Says the guy who hangs out with a bunch of teenagers_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_I don’t hang out with any of you._ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Which step is denial again?_ ** **»**

Derek smirks, already tapping out a response. Halfway through it, he realizes that he’s having a conversation with Stiles that _he doesn’t_ have _to have_. No one is dying; everything is calm, he has absolutely no reason whatsoever to be talking to this kid.

He deletes the half-finished message before he can second-guess his reasoning and turns his phone off, tossing it aside and flipping the tv on to some mindless sitcom.

—

 **Stiles -** **«** **_So do you like have a job or something_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Because I’ve seen your place and while it is not exactly “furnished” or “habitable” it’s still not an entirely bad space_ ** **»**

Derek frowns and glances around his room. He doesn’t know what the fuck Stiles is talking about. He has a bed and a dresser and a- a bed. (He knows he already said that, shut up, it’s big enough to count twice). And a couch and coffee table in his living room. Plus an entertainment center and a tv, with a console. And chairs sitting around the island in his kitchen. His house is totally furnished.

 **Stiles -** **«** **_And then there’s the car_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_And the gas that goes into said car_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_And the food that goes into the werewolf_ ** **»**

Derek gives in and texts him back because he has a feeling that Stiles won’t stop until he does.

 **Derek -** **«** **_Aren’t you supposed to be at school or something_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Yeah but that’s in like shit ten minutes_ ** **»**

Derek tosses his phone on his pillow and closes his eyes.

 **Stiles -** **«** **_So are you not going to tell me whether or not you have a job?_ ** **»**

Derek groans and rolls out of bed, pulling on a pair of pants and the nearest pair of shoes. He’s going to go get himself breakfast and coffee and then he’s going to eat it and go back to sleep. Yes, good plan.

 **Derek -** **«** **_No._ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Rude._ ** **»**

Derek grabs a jacket, runs a hand through his hair and heads out the door. He “accidentally” leaves his phone behind. By the time he gets back from the coffee shop around the corner, Stiles has sent him another five texts.

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Derek?_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Are you sleeping_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_I wish I was sleeping_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_So you don’t have a job, right_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Does Boyd know? Should I ask him?_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Isn’t there a rule against texting at school_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Yeah, probably, but that’s not important_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_What’s important here is me knowing whether or not you have a job_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_I’m going back to sleep. You can text me later_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Oh, awesome_ ** **:-)** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_But only if you feel like dying today_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Not awesome, Derek. Not awesome at all._ ** **»**

Derek huffs a reluctant laugh. Even though there’s no possible way he could know, it always feels like Stiles is winning somehow whenever he manages to get Derek to…emote. Ugh.

 **Stiles -** **«** **_So. Job. What’s that like._ ** **»**

Derek growls and throws his phone across the room.

—

Stiles is annoying.

He’s annoying and loud and _twitchy_ and, worst of all: he’s persistent. It’s like no matter how hard Derek tries to make it clear that he would _literally_ rather eat a million shards of glass than spend another second in the company of his incessant fucking prattle and his stupid smirking face, the kid just doesn’t seem to get it.

And okay, maybe it’s kind of Derek’s fault; he’s the one that keeps letting the little shit in after all, but what is he supposed to do, turn down free food? What is he, a heathen? The answer to that question is a resounding _no_.

So time and time again, Stiles shows up on his doorstep with bags full of mouthwatering promises, and time and time again, Derek lets him in. But that doesn’t mean they’re friends. No, he’s always hungry and Stiles always has food, and that is the _only_ reason Derek allows his presence.

Now, the reason for letting Stiles stick around long after the food’s gone? Derek couldn’t say. He’s still not a 100% on the whole possession thing.

—

 **Boyd -** **«** **_heads up ur sister knows about Stilinski_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Dammit Boyd_ ** **»**

 **Boyd -** **«** **_not my fault_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_It is DIRECTLY your fault you ass_ ** **»**

 **Boyd -** **«** **_eh_ ** **»**

The phone rings. Derek lets it go to voicemail.

 **Cora -** **«** **_Putting me off will only make this more painful for you in the long run._ ** **»**

And even though she’s thousands of miles away, there is no doubt in Derek’s mind that she will make good on that. The phone rings again, and this time Derek picks up.

_“So a little birdie tells me you’ve gone and made friends with a human.”_

Derek finds himself considering changing his number for the second time in as many days. “You know, normal people start a conversation with a ‘Hi, how are you,’ that kind of thing,” he tells his sister. “Also, I’m not sure Boyd could be categorized as a ‘little birdie’.”

_“Boyd is whatever I want him to be, stop changing the subject.”_

“What subject, there is no subject.”

 _“Oh, there totally is a subject,”_ Cora says, _“And the subject is that you, my dear brother, have been hanging out with a human. And not just_ any _human._ Stiles.”

Derek scowls. “How did you even—”

_“Find out? I thought we already established this.”_

“Yeah, but—”

Cora makes an impatient sound. _“Boyd’s been saying Stiles has smelled a little like you the last few weeks, and I guess yesterday, Stiles finally confirmed that you two are besties.”_

“Did he, now,” Derek says flatly.

—

Stiles is staring blankly at the door when Derek throws it open.

“Oh, hey,” Stiles says, sounding surprised to see Derek standing there. He pats Derek’s bare shoulder absently as he passes. Derek huffs and slams the door behind him, and follows him to the living room. Stiles is distracted to the point he doesn’t even seem to realize that Derek is trying to bore a hole into his skull with his eyes.

He makes himself comfortable on the couch, still not noticing the way Derek is glaring at him.

Derek goes back to his room to put a shirt on and stalks back out to the living room. He looms over Stiles for a full minute before growing tired of waiting for him to start paying attention.

“Why are you telling people we’re friends.”

Stiles glances up at him and then goes back to playing around on his phone, not at all concerned by the accusation in Derek’s voice. “Uh, because we _are?”_

“No, we’re not,” Derek says immediately. “How are we friends.”

Stiles sighs, put upon, and puts his phone down, swings his legs to the floor and sits up, giving Derek a serious look. “Derek. I’ve been coming to your house every weekend for the past month. We are marathoning Supernatural together.” A pointed pause and a look that says _you’re following this, right_. “I provide you with food and pleasant company and you provide me with your cheerful outlook on life and a sparsely decorated apartment to lounge around in. We’re friends.” Derek stares at him, uncomprehending, and Stiles stares back like he’s waiting for Derek to catch up.

And then Derek does.

His mouth falls open in horror and every instinct in his body is telling him to throw Stiles out, they are _not_ friends. Derek hasn’t had a real friend in years, since before the fire, and after that it was only casual acquaintances and Laura, and Laura’s dead now, and if _she_ could die, his bullheaded, Alpha sister, then surely Derek wasn’t dumb enough to befriend a fragile, human _child._

Stiles nods, satisfied that Derek gets it, and lays back down. Derek doesn’t move.

“Uh,” Stiles says a while later, Derek’s not sure how long, “are you gonna get that, buddy? It’s probably the food.”

There’s a sharp, impatient rap on the door, and Derek flinches and realizes that whoever it is has probably knocked more than once. He answers the door, accepts the food, digs in his pockets and hands the delivery boy a wad of cash, telling him just to keep it when he starts pulling the bills apart to count. He’s not really sure how much he ends up “tipping” the guy, but whatever the amount is, it makes the delivery boy smile widely.

“Whoa, thanks, man! That’s really awesome of y—”

Derek shuts the door on him before he can finish. He skulks back to the living room and hands the bag over to Stiles, who takes it with an eager expression and starts pulling the cartons of food out and putting them on the coffee table. Normally Derek would be just as eager to start eating as Stiles, but now that he knows it’s assumed they’re…friends, Derek doesn’t feel right.

He sticks around long enough to push his food around his plate and kind of watch an episode of Supernatural, and then leaves to grab himself a drink in the kitchen and decides not to go back out. He goes to his room, shutting the door behind him silently.

After what seems like a million years, he hears Stiles sigh and start shutting everything down, the console, the tv. There’s the sound of the fridge opening and closing and the rustle of Stiles gathering his things. He pauses near the front door. Says, “See you next week, Derek.”

Derek sits on the edge of his bed and says nothing.

-

He’d never really had a strong opinion about Stiles. The only reason the kid was even on his radar in the first place is because his dumbass best friend had gotten himself bitten and Derek was alone and angry and needed another wolf to help him take down the Alpha, the one that killed his sister, the one that turned out to be his uncle.

Yeah, he realizes his family history is a little screwed up.

When he’d first come back, he’d tried to keep Scott close, take him under his wing, help him adjust, which Scott did not make easy because Scott didn’t need anybody’s help, no, Scott was a big man and he was adjusting to being a werewolf just fine on his own. Of course he did try to kill both his best friend and his girlfriend and that dickweed Jackson—not that Derek can fault Scott for that one—but what’s a little lapse in control here or there, right?

So, Derek had tried a different approach, made up a story about how killing the Alpha that bit him would make him human again. Not his proudest moment, but he and Scott needed to stick together. It would make them, read: Derek, stronger. And they, read again: Derek, _needed_ to be strong to kill the Alpha.

Except, much to the Derek’s dismay, it quickly became apparent that Scott and Stiles were a package deal. Which meant that where Scott was, Stiles usually was, too. Which meant that not only did Derek have to play nice with an idiotic, hormone-driven teenage werewolf; he had to play nice with the idiotic, hormone-driven werewolf’s annoying human as well.

And he’d tried to. (Not really).

It’s just that Stiles was just so…irritating. Still is, even. Everything about him; how he can’t stay still, how he always seems to have a clever response on the tip of his tongue, how he’s always cracking jokes and sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong, how he doesn’t know when to cut his losses and get out before he gets himself hurt.

How he’s constantly saving Derek’s ass.

Derek hates that the most, hates owing people, hates having to say thank you. He doesn’t ever actually say it, but he hates that sometimes he feels like he should.

-

Maybe he does have a strong opinion about Stiles. He just doesn’t want it.

—

“What’s up, fuckface,” Stiles chirps the moment Derek opens the door. He shoves a carrying tray at Derek, and jogs back to his jeep, runs back with two bags of food and a movie. He’s panting by the time he makes it into the living room. Which is sad because his jeep was _maybe_ thirty feet away from the door.

“Dude, it is _so_ inconvenient being human sometimes, you don’t even know. I need super strength or, ooh! The ability to grow extra limbs. Like Apocalypse!” Derek stares back at him blankly. “No? Not ringing any bells, alright. Jesus, Derek, read a comic book sometime. But if you start with X-Men, start at the beginning, y’know? Sixties X-Men: Angel, Beast, Jean Grey back when she was still Marvel Girl.” He sighs exaggeratedly. “Dude. Are you just gonna stand there and stare at me like I’m stupid all day?

Derek considers it. He could. Just stand here and glare at Stiles until he gets uncomfortable and leaves. Then again, he knows Stiles and it’s a long shot that he’ll ever find any situation uncomfortable enough to leave.

Derek snatches the takeout from Stiles’ hands and snaps, “Don’t call me ‘dude,’” and sits on his couch, making sure to put his legs up again so that there’s no room for Stiles.

But Stiles doesn’t play along and pout on the floor this time, no. He decides to vault over the back of the couch and onto Derek’s legs like an asshole.

 _“Ow,”_ Derek snarls, more irritated than in actual pain, “what the fuck, Stiles?”

“Should’ve reconsidered being a dick,” Stiles says brightly, laughing when Derek tries to throw him off.

“Have you reconsidered being _alive?”_

Stiles grins, and everything is normal.

—

So they’re kind of friends. Derek doesn’t even know how.

If you’d asked him a couple months ago, he’d probably have said he’d rather pull his own teeth out, slowly and by hand, than spend a minute more with Stiles than he absolutely had to. But here he is, hanging out with him day in and day out.

Cora teases him relentlessly about it, makes a bunch of comments about “going native,” whatever the hell that meant, but in her more serious moments, she says she thinks it’s good for him, having a friend. Even a “goofy goober like Stiles.” Derek should probably be ashamed that he gets that reference, but he’d had a lot of younger cousins, plus Cora.

They don’t talk about that day, the one where Stiles had informed Derek that they were friends, and Derek’s subsequent reaction to this piece of information. Derek will allow that he hadn’t handled it well, but that is all he’s allowing.

Stiles will never get an apology from him, mark his words.

—

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Dude_ ** **»**

Derek takes a look at his phone, says, “Nope.” and tosses it aside.

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Dude_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_DUDE_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_I thought I told you to stop calling me dude, assface_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Well what am I supposed to call you?_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Bro_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Brother_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Sir Wolfy McWolfington_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Nah, I mean it’s got a nice ring to it but it’s kind of a mouthful_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_OOOH. Mr. Krabs_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Get it? Cause you’re KRABBY_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_aha ahaha_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_I think this is it Derek I think this is the one_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Stiles._ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_I will literally murder you._ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Art thou not feeling it, Mr. Krabs?_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_You’re just cracking yourself up aren’t you_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Maybe_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Aren’t you supposed to be in school or something_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Well, yeah_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_But I was gonna tell you that I got detention so I’ll be stuck here til 4_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_And I care because_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_For loads of reasons!_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Namely, I am awesome_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_That’s debatable._ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_YOU’RE DEBATABLE_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Dude?_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Dude_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Fine jesus I’ll call you by your given name_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Eugene_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_HA_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_HAHA_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_How tall do you think you are_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_…Why?_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_I just need an estimate_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_For… what?_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** _Enclosed picture of shovel_ **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Take a guess._ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Aw Derek you little kidder you_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_But I think we both know you’re not gonna kill me_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Oh? And why’s that._ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Cause I’m you’re laaaaaady, and you are my maaaaan_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_See I made you laugh didn’t I who else can do that_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_I did not laugh._ ** **»  
**

He might’ve laughed, whatever. He’s allowed to have a sense of humor and Stiles can occasionally be amusing. Very occasionally.

 **Derek -** **«** **_What do you want Stiles._ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Jeesh rude_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Stiles._ ** **_What do you want._ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_SORRY I was just gonna say that IF YOU FELT LIKE IT you could maybe get us food and IF YOU FELT LIKE IT you could also pick up some more of those cream soda thingies they were amazing_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_But only if you feel like it!_ ** **»**

He supposes it’s fair, nine times out of ten Stiles is the one who’s forking out money for takeout.

 **Derek -** **«** **_Fine. I’ll get food._ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_What about the soda_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Pay attention to your teacher._ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_So…that’s a yes to the soda?_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Hey Stiles what did you get detention for_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_...Texting in class_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Shut up._ ** **»**

Derek smirks.

-

He puts in an order for their food around 3:30 and runs to the store to pick up a couple bottles of cream soda. (Stiles had previously never tried it. Now he won’t shut up about it. Derek regrets very few things in life as much as he regrets showing Stiles that damned cream soda.)

He feels weird preparing for Stiles coming over. It’s like they’ve broken their unspoken agreement where Stiles shows up with food and Derek lets him stay a while and they both pretend like they’re not friends.

Anyways, he’s at the store grabbing the stupid soda for Stiles when he turns a corner and crashes into someone. It was completely his fault, he hadn’t been paying attention, but the person who he’d nearly knocked on their ass is already talking, mumbling frantic apologies.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I should’ve been watching where I was—” The woman cuts off mid-ramble when she recognizes who it is she’s apologizing at. “Derek?”

A smile creeps over his face.

“Jennifer, right?”

—

“Someone’s in a good mood,” Stiles notes around a mouthful of french-fries.

Derek tries to curb the smile he’s felt glued across his face since his run-in with Jennifer. “Shut up,” he growls without any real heat.

Stiles snorts. “Whatever, buddy. I was just checking to see if you’ve been replaced by a bodysnatcher or something, but I think we’re all good.”

Derek shoves him off the couch.

“Yep, false alarm,” Stiles says from the floor, “You’re still a dick.”

—

A text alert wakes him from the first decent sleep he’s gotten in a while.

**« _Knock knock_ »**

Derek angrily crawls out of bed and pulls on a t-shirt, glancing at his bedside clock as he goes. Nine o’clock in the fucking morning. Unbelievable.

He stumbles to the door, still half-asleep, and cracks it open, wincing at the too-bright sunlight that stabs him in the eyes.

“What the hell?” He doesn’t mean to say it, but Stiles is here. In the morning. Derek does not like morning. Morning is stupid. And so is Stiles for waking him up.

Maybe Derek is a little stupid too for not paying attention to who was texting him.

Stiles looks him over. “You were sleeping,” he deduces brilliantly. “And I woke you up. Shit. I’m sorry, man, I can come back later?”

Derek is about to say yeah, come back later, and maybe not at such a horrible hour, but then the wind shifts and he catches the scent of something wonderful.

“Food?” he asks, unable to keep the edge of hope from his voice.

Stiles grins and lifts the carrying tray Derek hadn’t even realized he was holding, (he’s a terrible werewolf sometimes), jiggling it enticingly. “And coffee,” he says.

“Coffee,” Derek grunts, stepping back to let Stiles in. He shoos him towards the kitchen, motioning for Stiles to put everything down on the island. Stiles pulls breakfast burritos, huge things, about the size of his forearm, and salsa out of the bag while Derek takes the seat next to him, yawning aggressively.

“Late night?” Stiles asks, sounding partially amused, partially curious.

Derek thinks about it. He’d met up with Jennifer for coffee. It had gone well, he thinks. She’d been sweet and funny, in her rambling, nervous way, and he really had enjoyed himself. But if he was being honest; the…interest he’d felt before wasn’t there anymore and he isn’t sure why. Not much has changed since their first encounter, right? He’s probably defective. There’s been speculation about this his entire life from Laura—and now Cora—and as he gets older, he finds himself agreeing with the sentiment more and more.

Still, he and Jennifer had talked for hours, mostly about things he hasn’t had a chance to talk about in years, normal stuff like books and politics and bad movies and made plans to do it again soon.

It was nice. It’s been a while since he’s had a normal friend.

Stiles is watching him questioningly, waiting for an answer.

Derek nods to the coffee. “Which one’s mine?”

Stiles picks one from the tray and hands it over. Derek murmurs his thanks and takes a sip.

He makes a face. “Black?”

Stiles looks startled. “Yeah, why?”

“Why would you bring me black coffee?”

“I dunno, you seem like a black coffee kind of guy,” Stiles says, hiding a smirk behind his own cup.

Derek shoots him a dirty look and drags his feet across the kitchen to fix Stiles’ mistake. Once he’s rectified the situation; i.e., added a sickening amount of milk and sugar to his now acceptable coffee, he takes a long drink, while Stiles watches on looking horrified.

“What?” Derek says, holding his coffee closer to him defensively.

He knows, objectively, that it’s not healthy, the way he takes his coffee. Laura used to say he only took it two ways: diabetic and semi-diabetic.

“Can you even taste the coffee?” Stiles asks.

Derek rolls his eyes and pointedly takes another swig.

“No, seriously. Were you planning on having some coffee with that sugar?”

Derek puts his coffee aside and huffs. “What are you, some kind of coffee snob? What’d you get then?” He snatches Stiles’ cup out of his hands before Stiles can stop him and takes a drink.

Pure sugar. Hypocrite.

He hands it back with a smirk. “You have no room to talk,” he says. “Yours is just as sweet and weak as mine.”

Stiles glares and cradles his coffee to his chest protectively. “I didn’t say that I didn’t take mine the same way. I’m just judging you for it because I know it’s wrong.”

Derek laughs and starts wolfing down his breakfast and almost forgets why he was annoyed at the kid in the first place. Until he catches sight of the time, of course. And then it all comes flooding back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so withhold judgment lol no negativity, let's all breathe
> 
> The chapters get longer after this
> 
> (Alternately titled ‘This Is Twice Now’ from a song of the same name by a band called Lydia)

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make my day! (my life)  
> Thanks for reading, feel free to check out my other shit :)
> 
> [tumblr](livthelion.tumblr.com) :D


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